The Wistful Crossroads
The rain hammered against the slate roof of the old estate, a relentless drumming that seemed to sync with the beating of my own heart, which was not in my chest but in my hands. I held the quill with a grip that would have broken a lesser man’s fingers, the wood slick with sweat, as I watched Silas’s chest rise and fall with the shallow, rattling effort of a man drowning on dry land. He was...
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